In Passing

Polytunnels slight the greenfield, glint
under the bridge
stretching the season

unreasonably, blinded by a horizontal sun
slicing the bypass
your car leaves the slow lane

a barren mind, an incipient night.  I think of you,
moist fingers holding
a new heaven, a new earth

yet to come.  Only the hills
translate the language of the living
to thunder and light

and a shudder of wind stretches the slack
elastic of  river
as it unfurls with the swans

now passing over.  After this year
the space between us
cannot be measured and if

I could I would go back to the house that isn’t there,
wait for the bus you used to catch
under protest weekends and holidays,

you arrive with your children and their children
to break the news
to bring an end to it.

- K. V. Skene